Maybe . . .
maybe it all made sense
before the leaves
began to turn and the
breeze through
my bones
took on a chill.
Maybe I had it all
figured out –
but it escapes
me now,
now, when pain is
common
and hope hard
to conjure.
Where did I spend
that power?
At what hour
did the magic
fail?
Those youthful spells
of certainty
dapple
the ground
around
my feet,
remnants of a
seasonal shift,
evidence of
what I missed,
dying
wishes
waiting for the
rake.
In my mind’s eye
a lake,
the air
cool
the sky
fair
as I ache
for what I
left
there,
a thing without
name,
but I feel
its absence
just the
same